


Choice of poison

by Beginte



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Bond cares deeply, Hurt/Comfort, I severely fail at summaries, M/M, Poison, Q is very brave, hints of mutual pining, poisoned Q
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-19
Updated: 2015-10-19
Packaged: 2018-04-27 04:22:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5033581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beginte/pseuds/Beginte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>It probably says something deeply disturbing or sad about Q's professional life that a mission gone smoothly is cause for suspicion.</i><br/> </p><p>Q makes a startling discovery in the middle of the night and must urgently reach Bond in order to alert him to a very present danger. On his way there, however, he gets poisoned...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Choice of poison

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dhampir72](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dhampir72/gifts).



> This is a present for the beyond lovely and talented dhampir72. Because she needs cheering up, and putting beloved characters through extensive emotional and physical pain makes her feel better. And she's re-awakened my temporarily dormant relish of hurt/comfort.
> 
> (Inspired by a scene in BBC's _Spooks_.)

* * *

It probably says something deeply disturbing or sad about Q's professional life that a mission gone smoothly is cause for suspicion.

Then again, it had been _Bond's_ mission, so a smooth finish with no unnecessary casualties or spectacular destruction of a foreign nation's public property is near unfathomable. And yet there it is: the mission had been all smooth sailing (literally, as luxury yachts came into play at one point) and ostensibly natural causes of death, and a deal gone through with only acceptable hitches.

And all his wryly humorous thoughts on the topic aside, something _does_ feel too clean and too perfect to Q about this. A vague, elusive tinge that almost imperceptibly marks a difference between a mission well done and a mission _orchestrated_ to be well done.

He sees Bond through landing on home soil and (for once) gets the equipment back from him. He also gets a box of richly smelling, rare tea that Bond had obtained for him somewhere, and well, Q isn't certain what to make of this ongoing habit of Bond bringing him various presents from his missions - exotic teas, occasionally funny or purposefully cliché trinkets, and sometimes truly unique, beautiful, often old items and curiosities unearthed at faraway marketplaces. Q does like them all immensely, and each present causes a happy flutter somewhere in his heart, but he tries his best not to read too much into those gifts or the playful, warm spark in Bond's eyes when he thanks him.

And so, after he controls said flutter in his heart and arrives home, Q gets to work. He double-checks and follows every cybernetic trace available, he sifts through data and CCTV footage, he verifies sources and backtracks events.

When he's done, the flutter is gone from his heart and a quiet chill settles in his skin.

He'd been right - something in this mission did go too smooth, and as a result of his investigation, it seems that the local MI6 contact in Greece, Stelios Doukas, is a double agent. He had helped Bond through some significant stages of the mission, and the success played as much to his benefit as it did to MI6's. And the game is by no means over.

Q bites on his lip, scanning through the evidence with his eyes, the light of his computer screen catching in his glasses.

This kind of thing has happened to Bond before - painfully and hauntingly, in Venice, with Vesper Lynd. This time, it's not even remotely so personal, but the mechanism of a sleeper enemy masquerading as an ally will definitely stir unwelcome memories. Q wishes he could spare Bond that. But at least he can help him deal with it and eliminate the threat, which will be the most satisfying thing that people of their kind can get in situations like these.

A thorough (and technically unethical) remote sweep of Bond's computer and phone reveals he's been bugged, and the digital fingerprints paint a trace back to Doukas via an associate. Q is getting decidedly nervous now.

He leans back in his chair and looks at the emerging picture he's patched together, bits and pieces still missing. The main message is clear though, and his skin is prickling with a sharp sense of increasing alarm. He hurriedly types in commands and sweeps Mallory’s phone – the results are slightly vague, but it’s almost certainly been bugged as well. Moneypenny, Tanner, R… he tries them one by one, each result heightening the cold dread clenching in his stomach.

Making a decision, he rummages through the clutter of dismantled devices and electronics on his desk and grabs the first memory stick available, plugs it in and copies his findings onto it – the incomplete data, the evidence, the leads, and then he hurriedly runs it through an encryption.

He has to contact Bond _now_. The security at Six has been compromised, and the figure behind Doukas - behind the entire plan - seems to be someone with a personal vendetta against Bond. Uncovering the figurehead's identity would require more time to search, and time is something Q doesn't have right now.

Bond will definitely be forthcoming with him. They have an understanding of sorts, a kind of loyalty to each other that had been forged so abruptly and instantly in the crushing crucible of the events of Skyfall. Dare he say, they also have a connection. They've always stood with each other, at times irresponsibly so, perhaps, but always with good results. Or at least, with the best results possible in an oftentimes hopeless situation, he thinks, the ghost of M, _their_ M, brushing against his back.

He glances at the clock on the monitor - just past one in the morning, perfect time for an unexpected visit to a work colleague's flat.

With the memory stick in his pocket, he shuts down his computer and leaves the flat, not wasting another minute.

The night is crisp and fresh, the last warmth of late September smelling sweetly and with that tart excitement which makes Q’s blood rush faster, with even more energy, driving him into action.

He huddles a little in his coat, looking around. The street is nearly empty, mapped out with yellow lights of streetlamps and occasional red smudges of passing cars’ tail lights. He quickly makes up his mind to hail a cab and heads down the street in a quick pace, fingers closing into a fist around the USB in his pocket.

Bond’s phone has been bugged. And not only his phone - his computer as well, and his email account is being stealthily monitored, as far as Q can tell. Whoever did this, must have snuck in between Q’s occasional, routine sweeps of the Six employees’ equipment. Which would imply a knowledge of at least some of Q’s security workings. Or could someone have just gotten lucky? It is a possibility. Q never underestimates the power of the random.

Rounding a corner he gets out into a broader street where quite a few people are out and walking, as well as a cab gliding up the asphalt, reflecting the lights off its shiny black sides.

Q picks up his pace, occasionally adding a spring to the tips of his toes to peek above the heads of a large group of pub-hunting people ahead of him. Average height is not an ally when searching streets - another reason to prefer monitors and CCTV. He wonders how Bond deals with it.

There’s another cab, marked as available, and Q pushes his way through the group, rushing to the edge of the pavement, raising his hand to signal the driver-

“Oof!”

“Sorry, mate.”

“Sorry...”

Someone bumps into him, slamming right into his side and nearly sending him off his balance. The man is a blur in his peripheral vision, lifting his hands apologetically, and Q makes a vague, dismissive gesture, his attention on the cab. Out of habit (he is a Londoner born and bred) he checks his pockets, but the USB and his wallet and phone are still there.

The cab slows into a stop and he gets in, rattling off an address, after which he falls back against the backseat and twitches his leg nervously as the cab pulls off the side and re-enters the traffic. Walking had at least given him a direct, physical motion, an action to feed his agitation and spiking adrenalin. Now he’s sitting and can only count seconds, fighting the impatience tugging at his nerves.

He _hates_ inability. The inability to take action, equating the necessity of an empty wait. He cannot phone Bond, and he cannot speed up the journey in any way.

He scratches at his side absentmindedly and then peers out the window, biting on his lower lip. Still nine streets away, and then a bit of a walk, because Q has been a spy for a long enough time to never take cabs directly to the address he needs for work-related purposes.

The cab makes a slow turn and Q scratches his side again, only this time he hisses when something stings under his skin unexpectedly. He can feel a cross between a chill and an outbreak of sweat run through him, rather like the sensation after biting into and swallowing an immensely sour fruit. The itch is still there.

Experimentally, he lightly scratches over it once more and hisses again when a much stronger pang of ache pulses up and then stays, not ebbing away. He frowns, pushing the lapel of his coat aside, and pulls his shirt up to look at his side.

Yellow lights of streetlamps glide over the backseat and illuminate a small bump of a swelling surrounded by a patch of reddened skin. Almost like a mosquito bite, except it keeps on hurting in a persistent, sharp way.

He’s breathing through his mouth now, quick and unsteady as his heartbeat picks up, and he feels a cold clench of budding panic in his chest.

No, no...

He touches the mark again, and it hurts worse. It looks redder than just a few seconds before, and suddenly he remembers the collision, the man bumping into him just a minute or two ago, out on the street. It wasn’t, it wasn’t _this_ side, it _couldn’t_ , it _cannot_...

It was.

He knows this undeniably and without pardon, he has a near-eidetic memory.

He lets go of the shirt and slams his head back against the headrest, breath hitching. His throat is tight and his mind is nauseatingly swirling, blurring away any semblances of coherent thoughts.

No, no, _no_...!

The reddened patch of skin is feverishly warm, he knows it without touching - he can feel the heat radiating and getting trapped under the fabric of his shirt. The ache keeps up and now there is sweat breaking out on his skin. There’s a prickling sensation in his armpits and under his jaw, and he knows it’s the lymph nodes. Already.

He has no idea what it is _precisely_ , but he knows what it is in general.

Poison.

His heart feels small when he thinks it, and his throat clenches in fear. Poison, and a quick acting kind, by the looks of things.

He needs to take in slow breaths through his nose and let them out with a hiss through his mouth, blowing out his cheeks, trying to at least _somehow_ regulate his breathing. His heart is hammering now, and it’s not helping things, not at all. It makes his blood circulate faster.

His head is spinning and he closes his eyes for a moment, trying to marshal his thoughts into order, but the throbbing in his side increases, and he can feel a tingling spread through his torso. He tries to wiggle his toes in his shoes, but he’s not certain if he’s succeeding, and it’s _poison_.

It’s poison, coursing through him, and he’s going to die.

The realisation is a slam of livid, blind panic, and he chokes out a whispered, hysteric sob, no, no, _no_ , he doesn’t want to! He cannot, he cannot!!!

It explodes, bright and unbearable in his mind, and he clenches his teeth, crying dry for a moment, cold terror stripping him bare. He’s twenty-seven years old. He’s never thought of this before, not really - he’s always dismissed age, it never mattered in his line of work, but now it’s sharp and lurid, and he feels fresh and small.

He’s twenty-seven, no, dear god, _no_!

The inevitability ( _fuck! The inevitability of time, fuck!_ ) is making him fiercely, desperately _need_ to jump out of his own skin, to escape, because his mind is ripping, splitting into shreds and splinters.

He clasps a hand over his mouth and barely hears the raw, wet sound he makes in his throat. On some panicked instinct, he sinks his teeth into his own palm, and this jolt of new, _other_ pain brings him out at least a little bit.

_Hospital-!_

No. His eidetic memory again instantly tells him any nearest hospital, let alone Six’ medical ward, is farther away than where Bond is right now, and he doesn’t know how much _timehehas_ , but he feels it’s _notmuch_. His mind glosses over the thoughts, as quickly and vaguely as possible, because it’ll break him to linger.

So no. Then he’d never deliver the message to Bond, and possibly to anyone if he’s being further followed, they’d take the USB from him. And there's no telling how deeply this issue reaches into the MI6 itself. So must to carry on.

Decision made, he clenches his teeth again and looks out the window, trying not to think cognitively about the fiery tingling that sinks deeper and deeper into his insides.

He’ll die.

The thought is somehow fresh this time, stark and clear, in high definition. He can almost taste it.

It’s not like he’s never thought of the possibility of it before - he’s a spy, has been since he was twenty years old. And since he became R, he’s been reasonably a potential target. Spies die in the line of duty, it happens. He's seen it happen. And now he'll do it. It's as simple as that.

Three more streets.

It feels even slower and more unbearable now.

His breathing is becoming uneven while simultaneously growing heavy. Now it’s a conscious effort to make his chest muscles move, contract and release, to keep the oxygen flowing. It’s no longer an involuntary reflex.

Good. At least he’s got something to focus on.

There's something hot coiling, squirming inside him that's trying to get out, and he swallows and tries to breathe more steadily. The driver asks him if he's alright, and Q somehow manages to get his vocal chords to work just enough to mumble out the new address. He can't walk the last bit as he'd originally planned, it's not feasible. If he's being followed it'll be Bond's problem, he's been trained for it. He'll manage.

For a moment he wants to cry again, but it rushes up and then goes away like a wave.

He tries to focus on breathing. He's cold now, but only deep on the inside, on the surface he feels like he's burning up. There's a swirl of nausea, though it's more in his brain than in his stomach, and he wraps his arms around his midriff. Only a few blurred moments later he realises he's just tried to hug himself.

The streetlights are brighter now, irritating his eyes, but also more hazy, melting away into mist.

He feels like he's running a very high fever. His joints are aching, and he feels heavy when he sluggishly clambers out of the cab when the driver says they've arrived. His voice feels a bit distant, and the night air is cool against his hot face. He thinks he's paid the driver, but he cannot be sure, and he walks slowly, because the pavement is swaying from side to side in miniscule swings under him - like he's on a boat small enough to yield to the waves.

It's dark despite the streetlights, and he tugs his coat tighter around himself, because he's freezing deep inside, and _focus_ , he needs to focus.

He dredges up all the remnants of strength in his body and he funnels them into walking onward, channelling all of it into sustaining his life. Just one more minute. Just one more minute. He has to reach Bond's door and press his flat number, and then- then he can-

Just one more minute.

His head is spinning and he no longer feels pain, but he cannot tell sounds from sights, and his brain is filled with the shapeless merging of them.

Through blurred vision he manages to find Bond's door, and he rests his forehead against the wall as he presses the right button.

He tries again and doesn't take his finger off the button for what feels like an eternity, and his teeth are chattering while fire climbs up his throat and scorches across his skin.

No... No, no. Bastard... must have gone out...

No...

He pulls off the wall and looks around, everything spinning around him, all blurs and long shadows and not enough strength to breathe. No, what... no, what... no, what's he supposed to...

He tries to focus, tries to remember which direction he came from, but why... his head feels heavy, and he's forgotten to force his chest to move, to breathe.

There's... a blurred shape ahead of him, familiar somehow. Murky in the shadows, and then it flashes and brightens in the streetlight, a halo of gold over his head - Bond.

So there. It's alright now.

His knees buckle and the ground slowly, so slowly swings up to meet him, and he falls into hot, stifling thickness, it wraps itself around him, and his eyelids are heavy and his heart is fainting and rattling in his throat, and he opens his eyes and it's Bond over him.

There's a piercing flash of urgency from somewhere deep within and far away, and he remembers - the USB.

Everything burns inside him, his innards are twisting in on themselves and it _burns_ , and then all of a sudden there's an ebb, and it pulls all breath out of him and all thoughts out of his head-

* * *

The night is clear and restless, and it beckons to Bond, in a sense. So stepping out to get more water from a nearby 24-hour store is more of a pretext, an empty point to go _out_ and move through the night.

Just a short walk, perfectly ordinary and almost unsettlingly mundane, and yet on his way back he feels that restlessness ebbing a little, satisfied, his excess energy the day after a mission worked off, at least for the time being. He settles into the even pace and crosses the street diagonally and away from the correct spot to do it, short-cutting his way back to his flat, two water bottles in a plastic bag.

Only a few people are out at this time, and yet as he gets to his street, one of the silhouettes seems vaguely familiar, somehow.

Q...

Bond slows down in his surprise and as he notices the Quartermaster's drunk-like, disoriented lack of balance, he's turning around slowly, swaying, looking about in a daze.

 _Oh, Christ_...

Bond picks up into a run, a shot of urgency and sheer adrenalin jolting through him, because Q is not drunk, and Christ, this is _impossible_!

And then Q sways and sinks to his knees and collapses onto the ground, and Bond is running, the bag dropped and forgotten, and he skids to a stop and drops to his knees as well, grasping at Q's shoulders, turning him over onto his back.

"Q! Q, can you hear me?" he shakes him, and the Quartermaster groans, his eyes opening just a faint fraction, glazed, unfocussed and unseeing. His lips are parted, and Bond can hear the wheeze and rattle in his throat, the bone-chilling weakness of his breath.

His skin burns like fire when he touches it, drenched with feverish sweat.

"Q!" he tries again, his voice rough and jagged with sudden fear, even to his own ears.

Q's hand is inching somewhere, to his coat pocket, and then his face contorts into a grimace, a pained groan coming from deep within his chest, and he twists, muscles tight and trembling. He writhes in pain in Bond's arms, and for a moment Bond cannot breathe. And then Q's body stills and goes slightly limp, consciousness rushing out of him.

Bond's training and instincts take over before coherent thoughts do, battering through the ice of shock and surprise.

He checks the pulse - it's weak, uneven and threaded, but it's there. No foam or blood at the mouth, and he _is_ breathing, however weakly and barely just. Next, he checks the coat pocket that had so clearly been on Q's mind, and fishes out a memory stick, evidently important.

Bond grits his teeth and forces himself to let go of Q, to let him lie on that cold pavement for just a few seconds, and he smashes out the window in the nearest car. Quickly, he opens the door and makes fast work of the wires, kills the alarm, and he rushes back to Q, carefully gathering him into his arms and lifting him off the ground. He deposits Q in the passenger's seat and gets behind the wheel, pulls out and makes the gearbox grate and rattle as he jerks the speed up to the fourth gear in much too short a time.

He speeds down the streets much too fast to be legal and to be safe. It's an agonizing choice, but he must risk a crash, because if he doesn't, he will physically not be able to get Q into Medical in time.

Whatever time there is.

He drives one-handed, keeping the fingers of his left hand pressed to Q's neck, clenching his teeth and latching onto that weak, fluttering pulse. Because he has to. He has to _know_. He would not be able to bring Q to the doctor and then see the solemn eyes and hear _"You have brought me a dead man"_.

He has to _know_.

The drive is a blur of street lights and car horns and rapid swerves and Q's weak pulse, and then they're in Vauxhall and just outside of Six.

Bond gets Q out of the car and rushes through the door and into the building and down the corridors.

It all seems too slow, not enough. People stare, mortified, in awe of something unthinkable, as 007 carries the unconscious Quartermaster through the doors. Some run away to raise alarm, some run up to him, others stay motionless in shock.

Bond's not sure if anyone is saying anything, if anyone asks anything, and even if they were, his jaws are clenched together and he cannot speak.

And then the Medical team rushes down towards him, arms reaching out, voices as urgent as their eyes, and Bond forces himself, painfully and excruciatingly, to let go.

He must. He has to.

Q leaves his arms, leaves him feeling suddenly cold and bereft, and with his heart on the precipice.

Or already plummeting down.

* * *

On the other side of the glass, all Bond can do is watch.

They say the Quartermaster is stable and will live, but it’s been a slow haul under the keel as Q was attached to machines, went through something along the lines of a dialysis, was given shots and various other treatments that Bond’s brain failed to register despite his eyes watching the whole thing. Maybe he’s too exhausted to register. Or maybe the viscerally clear images of Q twisting in convulsions on the pavement are taking too much space in his mind to make room for any other terrible memories that followed.

He can still feel Q’s threaded pulse on the tips of his fingers.

Moneypenny is standing beside him.

He’s not sure when she’d gotten here, which should be worrying, seeing as he’s supposed to be a spy. It doesn’t matter right now, though. She’s solemn beside him, looking through the glass at the pale figure of their Quartermaster surrounded by three doctors whose movements are much slower and less urgently frantic than they had been just an hour ago. And two hours ago. And three hours ago. And four hours ago.

Because that’s how long it took to pull Q back from the very brink of death.

In that bed, unconscious and with cables attached to his body, Q looks fragile, and Bond clenches his teeth, forcing the thought away. Because Q is _not_ fragile - he’s lethal and powerful and dangerous, and he very definitely doesn’t want to be thought of as fragile or weak or fallible. Not because of his age, not because of his physique.

So Bond won’t betray him by thinking that word.

Moneypenny’s eyes are suspiciously glassy. And maybe even just a little bit red.

“Why was he trying to find you?” she asks.

“He was trying to get me a message,” Bond replies. His voice is steady and no different than usual, but he doesn’t look away from Q. He still has the memory stick he'd found in Q's coat pocket. “He did. I have to have a look at it.”

Now, he turns his head to look at Moneypenny, because what he’s about to tell her demands attention.

“He didn’t phone me or email me or message me in any other way,” he says, and Eve’s eyes glint attentively. “I have to assume someone’s been bugged, either me or him. And it’s probably me, since he doesn’t strike me as a person who’s easy to bug,” he tries for a wry smirk. “That poison - it works quick. It must have been someone on the street,” the thought of a person behind the substance stirs him out of his lethargy, and he feels a hot need for vengeance. He will _relish_ it. “And yet he still needed to get to me. I think there’s a likelihood we have a mole. Or someone’s gained access from the outside.”

He looks at Q again and allows himself a moment to think about how very, very much he doesn’t want to leave. Moneypenny watches him.

“Go,” she finally says, steady but hard underneath it. “Go and work this out, because he _chose_ you to do this. Find the bastard who did this,” she tips her head towards the glass, “and pull their teeth out one by one. And then find out what’s wrong, take care of it, and come back and ask him out.”

Bond actually twitches at the unexpected finale and turns to look at her, sharp and probing. Eve smirks lightly, a semblance of her usual spark twinkling briefly in her dark eyes.

“He chose to get to you rather than to a hospital, James. I hardly think you’re going to hear a rejection.”

He turns away and frowns, looking at Q in great focus, because he feels his cheeks almost getting warm.

“I’ll look after him,” Moneypenny adds, and he hums quietly in response.

He needs to go - if nothing else, because Q chose to turn to him and nearly lost his life for it. But all of his loyalty is staunchly determined to stay here and not move an inch, so he can watch over Q and be by his side, like he should. He thinks about how much he doesn’t want to go, and how terrifyingly lost Q seemed when he’d slumped to the ground, and how sickeningly deathly he felt in Bond’s arms. How light he seemed, despite still being heavier than Bond had anticipated.

Then, he reaches into his jacket’s inner pocket and slowly pulls out the glasses he’d carefully tucked away in there. They’re warmed by his own body heat, and he gently runs a thumb over the frame, reluctant to let go. He passes them to Moneypenny. One of the lenses is cracked - it happened when Q fell.

Bond’s mouth feels too tired and too heavy to speak about this to Eve. But she doesn’t need him to, and she takes the glasses with care.

“I’ll get them fixed,” she says simply.

“Make sure... he has them when he wakes up.”

“I will.”

Bond imagines how much more upsetting it would be for Q to stir into aching consciousness and not be able to see clearly, not have his glasses which are so safe and so familiar to him.

 _God_ , he doesn’t want to go. He wants to stay and be here when Q wakes, even though they won’t let him in. It doesn’t matter, it will be enough to _see_ Q wake. Some deeply instinctive, primal, survival-centred part of Bond needs to see him open his eyes, because Q hasn’t since he’d closed them, passing out in pain in Bond’s arms.

But he will live. He will be alright. Bond hadn't held him as he died - he delivered him alive.

It's a thought he must hold on to.

He's terrifyingly uncertain if he'd be able to withstand it, if it had been otherwise. The answer is murky and deep, like alcohol and drowning in a cold, frozen lake.

(Because there's no uncertainty, not really. He wouldn't bear it - he wouldn't bear holding another person important to him in his arms as they die. Another person so deeply, desperately important to him, so much against reason. He wouldn't survive it, not really. Not Q.)

He feels too raw to go - too shaken still, but he has to. Every minute counts, and Q trusted him - to the point of deciding to die for it.

The grey dawn breaks over the damp streets of London as he emerges from MI6, phone disposed of in a rubbish bin, USB in his pocket.

Two hours later, as the sun is rising, he's caught up on Q's discoveries. Four days later, he identifies the head of the operation. Two days after that, he locates the man who'd poisoned Q, and takes five painfully long hours to kill him. Four weeks after that, he comes home, threat eliminated.

Q looks healthy, helming the Q-Branch again. He greets Bond with a steady voice and shining eyes bright behind the fixed glasses. He says 'yes' when Bond asks him out to dinner. During dinner, they speculate whether Q's stamina has been damaged by the poisoning incident. After dinner, in Q's, bed, they most delightfully find out it hasn't.

The next time Bond holds Q in his arms as he drifts out of consciousness, is because Q is falling asleep, pleased, with his wild curls ruffled and delectable skin specked with occasional lovebites.

And this, Bond wants to repeat over and over again.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Also, big thanks to dhampir72 for kindly helping me out with a few extremely pesky paragraphs and BETA-ing them for me - you're a darling!


End file.
